The Waters of My Heart
by The Villain's Vindication
Summary: A.U. John Watson is bored with work, bored with friends, and bored with life. In one last gamble to fulfill the void left by the adrenaline fixes he thrives on, John visits the most dangerous man in Britain, Sherlock Holmes. The man is a notorious mass murderer locked away for a dozen life sentences... and exactly what John's needs most. John's POV, Johnlock, Serial Killer Sherlock
1. Interviews with a Londoner

AN: Written from John's perspective, so plot information will come naturally as he learns of it. Unlike my other Johnlock story, this one is completely conversation based.

* * *

The Waters of My Heart

By: Dr. John Hamish Watson

* * *

Part 1: Interviews with a Londoner

* * *

"May I borrow your phone?"

My eyes flickered over the bare, concrete room to the only other occupant: a man clad in nothing more than blindingly white cotton trousers and untied straight jacket starched within an inch of its life. He was seated in a simple plastic chair across from which another identical one waited empty, for me.

Continuing my perusal, I couldn't help but wiggle my toes within the confines of my shoes in sympathy, for the room itself was cold enough that the man's bare feet resting on the cement must have been freezing. The sight of the over long sleeves on the jacket was actually a bit of a shock. As a doctor, I was certain the use of such restraint was unlawful these days, but the man _was_ unbound. Perhaps it was merely a precaution.

The man's gaze, once I finally met it was so completely arresting that it took me a few moments to compose a response. Irises that might have once held color seemed bleached white in the unforgiving florescent light. I shifted on my feet, reluctant to move any closer.

"I'm not allowed to give you anything."

His mouth twitched in something like amusement "You won't be giving it to me, in fact, you don't even have to let go of it. Just hold it out to me and I'll type out a quick text. You can spare one simple text, can you not?" The orderlies had given me such specific instructions as well as warning me of his honey tongue. But it was such a simple request, it would cost me nothing and here before me was a man utterly isolated from the world.

What could one text hurt?

I stepped up to him and held out my phone. His eyes flashed up to mine with honest surprise before focusing on the phone. He reached towards it slowly and wrote his text. He knew any sudden movements would bring an army of nurses with sedative needles down upon him. When I had walked through the final barrier to the room, I left what seemed like the entire faculty of the Baskerville Center behind to watch the two of us through the one-way mirror. Somehow I was more weary of them than the man they so feared inside.

Reclaiming my phone, I settled into the distinctly uncomfortable chair. All the while I felt his gaze never waver from me. "So Doctor," he purred into the quiet hum of the room, "what do you know of me?"

Shock, how on earth...? "How did you know I'm a doctor?"

He leaned in towards me, but he was intrigued, not threatening. "I know a great deal about you, good Doctor, but I asked first. What is it you know about me?"

I mulled over possible answers. For whatever reason, my instincts told me to go with the truth. "Very little."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I prefer to make my own judgments about people, to see to my own first impressions."

A half smile quirked his lips, "Do I impress you?" I wasn't sure quite sure if the question was rhetorical but I kept silent none the less. It was apparent that we were working down a script in his mind. His genius was not exaggerated in the least as I had thought, having only the tabloids to judge from before. But, it was clear that he had every possible conversation between us already mapped out and planned. Later on, I would come to wonder if he knew how our entire story would play out from that first sight alone.

He moved on, "What do you see when you look at me?"

I shrugged, honestly there wasn't too much to be seen. "Tall, posh, Englishman in an asylum."

He hummed impatiently, "True enough Doctor, but I was hoping you'd go a bit... deeper..." The tone of his voice had not shifted much from the sultry low he had begun with, and that last statement sounded a bit like innuendo. I shifted where I sat, a bit uncomfortable with the idea of him coming on to me.

Having the full attention of a serial murderer was more than dangerous.

"Well," I looked away from him to the ceiling and wall. He was looking for something more personal, I knew, and I couldn't meet his eyes as I said it. Even if it wasn't some secret revelation, "you seem cold... lonely."

Holmes steepled his hands before his face, the tip of a finger running distractedly over and back across his lower lip. After a moment he responded, "I live in the highest security solitary confinement in all of England, of course I'm alone."

Was he already deliberately misinterpreting my words? Twisting my meanings? Or was this more of his unspoken test? "I didn't say alone. I said lonely."

"So you did... Interesting, Doctor-" he raised an eyebrow in question.

"It's John, John Watson, my name I mean." My mouth snapped shut with a click. God, did this man make me sound like an idiot. There was no good reason for me to be tumbling over my words, but my fumbling didn't annoy him as I would have thought. He didn't react in the least, simply continuing to trace his mouth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

The nearly unnatural symmetry of his lips broke to one side in a curious smile, "Mmm... well, Johnny, surely you know more about me than you've let on so far. Everyone and their mother knows why I'm here, for example."

I shook my head. Honestly, at the time I didn't know anything about how he was finally brought down. The man had actually worked for the police, at least part of the time. Yet he killed for years, maybe even his whole life, before making a mistake. His one and only.

"Yes, you're here because you got caught," I said bluntly. Holmes was obviously a man difficult to offend, so I decided not to bother with filtering my words from then on. I did actually come to see him for a purpose, after all. So, I sat forward in a mirror of his posture, my hands praying to him. "Now, I've told you what I see, so how about a little quid pro quo? Tell me what you can detect about me."

He laughed then, an awkward noise, like he didn't really know how. "I don't detect; I deduce. And, really Doctor, quid pro quo? You've been watching to many films. Though I must confess Silence of the Lambs is one of my personal favorites."

My face heated a bit, "Yes, well, people in real life... they just don't do the sorts of things you have, so this all seems like... well... it just at times seems like a movie."

"What do people in their _real_ lives do then?" he drawled.

It was one of the oddest inquiries I had ever heard. What do people do? "I donno, go to school, get a job, fall in love-"

"Boring." He cut me off sharply. I worried that I had finally managed to anger him. He filled suddenly with an agitated energy. His hands moved to grip the sides of his seat beside his legs like he was attempting to hold himself to it, like he would vibrate away with all he had pent up inside him. His knees bounced erratically. There was nothing to do but let him spout off what he so obviously desired to say.

"What?"

The dam burst: "Absolutely dull, this real life of yours. I assure you mine is far more fun. That's why you're here after all, isn't it Johnny? You're bored. You, a doctor, surgeon of a sort judging by your hands, have been slowly worn down by the clinical, methodical nature of your work. You've seen plenty of gore and death in your life, but it just isn't enough for you anymore, is it?

You crave something else in your life. You don't have any close relationships due to your deeply ingrained trust issues. So, alone and bored you're thinking of retirement. Fleeing you're cage of comfort into more exciting settings abroad. And what do doctors do in retirement? They write. Medical journals are the most common but you, Johnny, are a sentimental man, so it would be a novel for you. Perhaps it would even be a personal narrative, though that's just a shot in the dark. And what could be more exciting for a man addicted to danger to write about than the most dangerous man in London?"

He spewed information like a computer. His brain so far ahead of everything else that his mouth could hardly keep up, making him lightly out of breath just from speaking. He must have found breathing too boring to concern himself with it.

I had to look at him anew. Suddenly more than a "tall, posh, Englishman in an asylum," he was something like a magical creature, trapped in the form of a lanky Briton. How great must be his mind? I couldn't hope to fathom. It was all the more impressive because I knew it _wasn't_ the work of some magic, as a doctor such ideas were far fled into my childhood. He was the ultimate puzzler, the great riddler, a natural born genius... and he was forever bound to this cage.

In that moment of eureka, Sherlock Holmes was shining. It was blinding and undeniable, the realization of his brilliance.

Was I the only one who could see this?

"Amazing," the word breathed out in a whisper, reverent, despite myself. It sickened me in parts to be so lightened, so filled with the awe of this man's power, this man who was so evil, so depraved. But, it was a sweetly sickness. As soon as the nausea and shame and guilt flashed through me, equally fast did it pass. I had no recourse but to accept it. It was as a part of me. A 'myself' that I had always been yet never felt because it required this other to show it.

I was given time to ride these waves of thought as my response seemed to similarly blindside him. His eyes wide in surprise, "...really?"

My smile tore at my mouth to overtake my face no matter how I tried to repress it. Awkwardly I lifted my hand to slide over it, hoping to at the least muffle its ferocity. I had been dead inside for so long and had known this man for mere minutes, it was embarrassing really how flipped around, how _happy_, I felt.

And all this from a visit with a serial killer.

"Incredible, that was... truly incredible. You must have been quite the detective with a trick like that." He rolled his eyes but returned my smile. "It's no trick, just simple observation... You know that's not how most people react?" Holmes leaned in towards me, and though there were feet between us, his glowing eyes felt so close.

"How do most people feel about your deductions then?"

"Afraid. They feel fear. People cover up their fear with anger, at times even violence, but those reactions are all secondary to the fear. The truth, Johnny, is what most people fear the most. But you... you aren't frightened at all." The way he said it made me feel both insulted and complemented. He wove his words with his entire body, so it was obvious that he found me a fool for this so-called bravery but in a way also in awe of it.

Honestly, though I'm not brave, but I am an idiot. I suppressed a laugh and just decided to go with it. "Honestly, Mr. Holmes, you don't seem very frightening." Really he was, so arresting and intelligent but it only attracted instead of repelling me.

Beautifully frightening.

I did then recall he had a brother. I must have read somewhere about him, some bigwig politician. He was the reason Sherlock was interned here as apposed to a real prison or mental hospital. This place was more of a military bunker than anything. I can only assume that the choice was made in Sherlock's best interest. Mr. Holmes must have thought he'd get better treatment, live a better life, here away from institutionalized punishment. That track of thought could only last so long though under the onslaught of my curiosity. How did he deduce so much about me?

Everyone has something to hide, things they keep secret. But this man already knew my secrets, what more could I hide? I had been a closeted adrenaline junkie my entire life, always working hard to portray the calm, normal, responsible doctor people expect. I wanted to know what gave me away.

"Sherlock then. How did you know I liked... erm... danger?"

His mouth quirked upward, so rarely was he given the opportunity to run through his genius he was obviously attempting to not jump at the bait. "Because you're here," he began slowly, "But further still, I can see the corner of a gambling slip sticking out of your left front pocket. A gambling addiction explains the poor state of your clothes despite your ample salary as a surgeon. You've gambled your money away, but you don't really care because it's not about the money. It's not about winning or losing, of course not, it's about the risk, the thrill, the danger." By the end he was nearly purring his words. The hair on my arms stood on end. It was so _obvious_. His words were spoken from a level personal to him. He was a danger chaser just like me.

Well... not exactly like me. He had chosen another path to get his thrills.

"It's such a bloody waste," I sighed, shaking my head.

"Hmn?" As fast as his fit of energy had come upon him, so had it passed. He was now slouched back in his seat. Appearing to give up on paying attention to our conversation.

"What you've done with that mind of yours. You could do... could have done... great things."

He didn't react but to raise an eyebrow at me, "What makes you think I haven't?"

I had it in me then to truly get angry. It was criminal, it was _sin_, to have this gift squandered away in the impotency of cold rooms. But this man had made his choice, so I reigned in my frustration. Nothing to be done about it now.

"You know what I mean. You could have accomplished anything with a genius like yours. I'd give my left arm for a piece of a mind so sharp and clever, yet here you are. It's just a waste." Sherlock was silent, that glint of loneliness I saw when I first looked at him returned in small parts to his eyes. I didn't want to think on his fate any longer, so I moved on to something I just had to bring up.

"I work at Bart's, you know." He made no mention of the subject shift, only continuing to listen, "so I run into your old accomplice, Molly Hooper, in the halls on occasion. It was a bit of a controversy that they rehired her after she was released from jail and finished off her parole sentence."

Holmes seemed only vaguely interested, "Back working the morgue, is she?"

"No, I think she's been banned from handling bodies directly. She's working on the more administrative side these days."

"A paper pusher, pity." It was interesting that these words were my exact thoughts as well, after knowing her as an acquaintance for some time now. The girl is clever, it is a shame that her connection to this man has ruined her career forever. But given what I'd already experienced of the magnetism that is Sherlock Holmes, I was understanding her position more every moment. "Most people don't understand how such a sweet woman could help you conceal your murders. You know they say you hypnotized her, brain washed her somehow. But it's painfully obvious... at least to me... that she's just in love with you."

He caught my eye with his, "Lots of people are in love with me. Fans, tedious."

I couldn't help but scoff. I mean, honestly. "How do you know I'm not a fan? I did just come here to speak with you after all. You've even told me I'm going to write a novel about you." Holmes smiled and shook his head.

"Please, fans are obvious. They either want to shag me or murder me... or both, and not necessarily in that order. You can't fathom the piles of fan mail and love letters women send me each year. Do you know how many of them call me their 'Honey' or even worse their 'little Honey Bee.' They seem to find it terribly ironic." At this I matched his slightly disgusted expression. I hadn't lied when I said I knew nearly nothing of his crimes, but was impossible not to know the man's moniker, that media tag they tend to give all famous killers. Holmes' such given name is... unfortunate at best.

I wondered at the sort of people who loved an unreachable serial murderer. Before I met Molly, I would have pictured only the most bizarre and depraved individual, but it had been clear to me for a long time that people cannot control who they fall for. Any girl I pass on the street could be sending this man their dirty knickers, but what about the man himself? This cold convict? "Do you ever respond to them?"

Something alighted in his eye, and he ran his hand through his hair. I then realized how my interest might be misconstrued as... well, romantic interest in him. I cleared my throat awkwardly and looked away. He was certainly flirting at this point. With his bouncy gloss curls. "No, no that whole thing... It's not really my area, so to speak," he spoke quietly to me. Intimate, despite the cameras and lookers-on beyond the glass.

"Women, you mean? What about that dominatrix of yours?" I nearly bit the inside of my own cheek to stop myself from blathering. Why did I care or want to know? I like to tell myself that it was for the book.

But, it's hard to fool yourself.

This only pleased him further, tilting his head so that even in the bleaching florescent lighting he looked cool. He had clearly perfect this effect over the years here. "So you have read up on me, haven't you, Johnny? Yes, beautiful Irene, the last I heard she ran off to America," he reminisced.

I was immediately confused. "What? All the papers reported her dead. She passed away in the hospital before your trial even started."

"Ah, it's witness protection for her then. Still, I think, in America though." A spike of cold fear crackled through me for the first time in our meeting. Somehow this connected the realness of this man. This killer. Here he was speaking so blithely of a woman he maimed and planned to murder. I thought her in the past, but even in witness protection it wasn't even a question in my mind that he knew exactly where she was, that he could get someone to get to her. She was in danger even now, with him blocked into this brick prison. If he wanted, if his whims so desired it, his genius could find a was to hurt her even now.

His body was bound to this place, but his mind, his influence, was not so easily contained.

He didn't need and deducting ability to read the new stillness of my demeanor. "Oh Johnny, I'm no threat to her anymore. Locked up tight here, aren't I? Anyways she's lost my interest. Even if I could, I wouldn't pursue her. She doesn't matter anymore."

A level of relief flooded me, though I was reluctant to believe him. "But, she's the only one that outsmarted you. The only one of your victims to escape."

"Irrelevant," Holmes waved his hand in indifference.

"Er... but why? I would have thought she'd, well, that she'd be important I guess." Surely she was special to him? In some respect?

"It takes something more than cleverness and a pretty face to hold my interest, and it has been so long after all. My attention has long turned elsewhere." His gaze weighed heavy on me then. I was... discomfited to say the least, but could not turn away until the opening of the door broke the still air.

An orderly stepped partly into the room, "Five minutes until visiting hour is over."

I frowned, confused, "What? It can't have been an hour already." Glancing back at Holmes, he hadn't moved to acknowledge the nurse but seemed amused now. "I'm afraid it has, my dear Doctor. This has been such a pleasure though. You are absolutely fascinating."

Honestly, I was shocked. How could I be interesting to such a dynamic man?

"Oh, yes," his lips twitched into a smile. He propped his head on his hand and his fingers returned to their tracing of his lower lip. I couldn't understand why I continued to notice such things, even though they disturbed me.

"Why?" I pressed on. I wasn't ready for our time together to be over even as the orderly approached me, showing his impatience to escort me from the room. "I'm boring... ordinary. I'm one of the regular people you loathe."

"Oh no, Johnny, you couldn't be more wrong. You are utterly exceptional." I flushed at such words despite myself. "Why, you ask? Because unlike every other person who has visited me over the years, you are the one and only who has, in this hour, not once asked me about my murders. You have, instead, asked all the right questions."

"But, I hardly got to ask you anything." And already the mundane world that waited for me outdoors looked that much more stale.

Holmes just continued to smile mysteriously, "Didn't you?"

The orderly touched my shoulder, "Come on, Dr. Watson. We must leave now." I sighed and stood. There was no way for me to stay longer, though I would have given anything to have it be so. The large man steered me towards the door. As I turned away from him, Holmes called out to me. "If you are interested in research, I suggest Kitty Riley's biography. It's by far the most accurate, still riddled with fiction of course, but she had a source close to my brother. Her work is hence the most reliable."

I turned to look at him one last time, now I saw much more than a Londoner in an unbound straight jacket. I saw brightness and color, and I felt dull and slow in comparison. What if this was the only chance I got to speak with him? A despair clouded my chest at the thought. At least, I supposed, I had some reading to do. Perhaps it would be enough to distract me from my everyday, for awhile. "Uh... alright," I responded inelegantly Creeping through the slip of the doorway as the prison door clicked shut behind us were his last words to me: "Goodbye... Johnny."

Or what I thought were his last words.

Walking out to my car, I recalled that he used my phone. Curious, I looked to see who he had texted and found two texting drafts saved onto my own phone.

YOU SHOULD VISIT ME AGAIN WHEN CONVENIENT -SH

IF INCONVENIENT, COME BACK ANYWAY -SH

I couldn't help but break out into loud, incredulous giggling. Even before we had spoken, he knew.

And already, that cloud in my chest felt that much lighter.

* * *

Part 1: End

* * *

AN: This has been so hard to write, so updates will be slow. Sorry. Please review, I love suggestions and ideas! Thanks for reading!

p.s. I love SerialKillerlock, my favorite rec for this is "The Loss of Flesh and Soul" by deuxexmycroft on AO3. Go check it out! And rec me any other related fics in the reviews please!


	2. Job Interviews

Part 2: Job Interviews

* * *

"_It is my humble opinion on the matter that Sherlock Holmes is not only the most prolific killer in London for the last hundred years but also the most successful con artist of all time. Holmes worked with New Scotland Yard on a regular basis for five years and an untold number of years before then in an 'unofficial' capacity. This man was the London police's dirty little secret, solving all their homicide cases for them in record time with evidence that, get this, only he could see and understand._

_Here I do not think it is so outrageous to claim that Holmes was actually the perpetrator of all these murders, and this is how he miraculously 'discovered' the clues that lead police to arresting someone else in his place. He found the perfect cover story in orchestrating the case against someone else. Many estimate the numbers of victims to be thirty or forty based on evidence discovered in his home and in his journals, but I have found in my research that he assisted NYS on dozens of more cases and we must assume that as he improved his vile methods on his killing spree that most of his victims went completely undiscovered and unreported. And who is to ever know what he did in his youth? I believe it is not unreasonable to say the count of the dead left in his wake may number well into the hundreds._" -Kitty Riley.

I scoffed and closed the book. Seriously, this woman was looking to turn something already extraordinary into a complete circus. It was difficult to pick out the truth from among the ridiculous opinions and inflammatory language, and this was the biography Holmes himself had recommended I shutter to think what the others must be like.

I took a bite of my sandwich. I had been reading the book during my breaks at the surgery once I found it to be more entertainment than reporting. I thought I might as well get a few laughs out of it.

Anything was better than being bored.

But this turned out to be a mistake as I nearly choked on my tea, Molly had just walked into the cafeteria I rarely saw her at the hospital and even then it was only a glance or a kind hello, but the book in front of me was predictably as offensively colorful on the cover as the wording on this inside so it drew her attention directly.

"_The Fake Detective_, that's about... Sherlock... isn't it?" she stuttered. "I've never read it, you know. If I want to read about him I just read my own diaries... er... sorry. That's a bit weird isn't it?" Molly's nervous titter echoed in the otherwise silent room. The poor thing was just so awkward and I had certainly only made it worse by bringing up such thoughts by reading that trash. I can't imagine what she thought of me.

Setting down my tea slowly, I tried to find something to diffuse the situation, "Um, yes, well you aren't missing anything. Complete rubbish, the lot of it. I don't know why I'm reading it. Just curious I guess."

Molly smiled at me strangely and sat down at my table, "that's not really true, is it?"

"Sorry?" I raised my eyebrows. What was she on about?

Molly ducked her head a bit, tucking her hair behind her ear, "well... it's only... I actually came in here because of a rumor I heard. That..." she cleared her throat unnecessarily "well... I heard that you visited Sherlock, last week."

Taking a sip of tea, I took a moment to curse the hospital rumor mill. Damn Mike, that's the last time I tell him anything in confidence. I forced a smile, "yeah, I did. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Molly."

"Oh no, no not at all," her smile softened. "He won't see me," she glanced away, "I've... tried to visit, but he won't..." Molly just shook her head. "I was just wondering... if he's alright? Did he seem... okay?"

"Yeah, yeah he was fine," on one level I wasn't too surprised to hear he wouldn't see her when she visited him. He was blatantly uninterested when she was brought into the conversation before, but on another level it made me question why he agreed to talk with me. After that, I wasn't sure what else to say. She seemed to be looking for more from me, so the rest of my lunch was spent looking away to the wall. Was I supposed to ask about her journals? I was a bit curious about a more honest account of his life before, I was starting out with little notes and such that might turn into a book. But that was an even more awkward conversation than this one, I couldn't imagine reading something so personal.

I looked at my phone to appear busy, but only opened Holmes's texts to me once more. I swiped my thumb over the electronic words contemplatively. Here before me was a woman who understood this man's draw, possibly the only other person in the world that could. For whatever reason, I felt protective of my association with him. I didn't want to share anything, even with this woman who no doubt knew Holmes so much better than I.

But Sherlock wouldn't speak to her, and that made me feel special. It was a petty emotion, no doubt, but unavoidable all the same.

Also unavoidable was the fact that I was, indeed, going to accept his invitation. Against my better judgment, I was going see him again.

* * *

It was the weekend, and the weather was nice enough that I took a cab over to Trafalgar Square. My dwindling social life had lead me to be a bit of a shut-in, so getting out among the crowds was good for me. I've always had a love of people watching and a general aversion, read: incompetence, with technology so the square was always a good place to go think with pen and paper in hand.

I wanted to come up with good questions to ask Holmes, but having never been any sort of reporter or writer before left me a little out in the water as to where to start. I sighed, scratching the back of my head with the pen. I watched the flow of people for awhile, and as they came and went a man sat down beside me. It wasn't an occurrence that I would usually note, let alone remember, but he turned to me with eyes that I recognized and a question that frosted me with fear.

"What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

How did...? Did everyone in the world know? What was this?

A great anger riled up in me then. Why the bloody hell did people think it was proper to worm their way into my life. There was no connection between us. I had only met him once for God's sake!

"I could be mistaken," I veritably growled, turning to the man, "but, I think that's none of your business." His penetrating gaze was familiar, though it took me a moment to connect the dots. This man was like Holmes, but the similarities might have been coincidental. I had no way of knowing who this stranger was.

Yet somehow, he knew me.

"Doctor Watson, is all that hostility really necessary? It was a friendly inquiry, I assure you." He brushed absently at his coat collar, the entire outfit simply radiated money. "Who are you?" I asked, not placated in the least.

"Ah yes, how rude of me. I'm an interested party, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock therefore being, of course, my younger brother." Somehow he formed his mouth around those words but I could hear the mild disgust behind the sentiment. Well, at least I knew who he was. After read that laughable biography, I knew that this was the man responsible for Sherlock's peculiar place of imprisonment. Supposedly Holmes was given special privileges, being the only prisoner in what was effectively a military bunker. Said bunker itself surrounded by the most bizarre rumors of cutting edge science experiments and what amounted to cheesy sci-fi plots.

This elder Holmes was someone of telling influence to get Sherlock in such a place. Perhaps he thought he was helping his wayward brother, but I knew better. I had been their and seen his bare feet on those frozen floors.

There was no comfort for Sherlock at Baskerville.

"Well yeah? That's just great, but you see... it's still none of your business." I pointedly turned away back to my notepad. Still from the corner of my eye, I could see his calculating look. He cleared his throat, "I've done a bit of looking into you, Doctor, and I have certain _concerns_ when it comes to the people Sherlock is influenced by. _You_, Doctor, concern me."

I couldn't have been more incredulous, "... Are you saying that... that I'd be a bad influence on him? _Sherlock Holmes_? Do you even know who he is?"

"I am well aware, yes," he sat up a bit straighter, "as I am also aware of a little hobby of yours."

I rolled my eyes, "yes, the gambling. Sherlock deduced it within seconds and I'm supposed to be afraid because you saw my debts in 'checking up on me,' was it?"

"I was referring to this," he tossed a glossy photograph in my lap. A photo of me... shooting a gun. I swallowed heavily. "Bit of an odd pastime for a London surgeon, isn't it?"

"Steady hands, keen eyesight, focus, the skills from my profession actually do transfer quite perfectly. It isn't illegal." And it wasn't, it's not like I actually owned a gun or anything.

"No, of course not. Just a bit of fun at the shooting range, hmn? Letting off a bit of steam after work?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Look, I don't know what you want but-"

"I'd like to offer you a job actually," a slick smile manifested, "I had to sure, you understand, that you were the sort for the job. And now that I can see that you're telling the truth about your unfortunate idea of fun, I am confident that you are... suitable."

"I'm not looking for a job," I stood up, at this point tired of the pompous git. I began to walk away when his words caught me, "it's to do with my brother, Sherlock. Since your visit, he's been... more himself than he has in years."

"And that worries you?" Looking back over my shoulder I couldn't see a bit of honest emotion on his controlled face. He stood as well to meet me and held out a card, "you don't have to say anything now, in fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't. Call this number, once you've thought about my offer."

With trepidation, I took the card and put it away in my pocket, "what exactly _are_ you offering?"

His politician smile stretched uncomfortably wider, "a position as Sherlock's doctor."

I just blinked at him. Was he serious? "But I haven't any experience in psychology or psychiatry, I do surgeries. I'm a trauma specialist." This almost got a chuckle from him for some reason.

"Quite... just think about it, Doctor," he turned and melted into the voluminous crowds. I pulled out the card and looked at it. The thing was totally blank but for a number in red, to short to be a normal telephone number. I wasn't sure what to think of the whole thing. I was getting ready to retire from medical practice not embark on a new field. But even through my simmering anger, there was a curiosity. Working with Holmes? That would give my budding novel something more credible to stand on, something more than a spattering of visits. Otherwise, who would even listen to what I had to say over the experts?

"_Before, during, and since his trial the Great Fake Detective has remained silent. The only one's who know his voice are the orderlies he deigns to insult. My__ report will be the closest we will ever get to the truth._" -Kitty Riley

It meant getting closer to Sherlock.

So what was the harm in considering it?

* * *

Part 2: End

* * *

A.N. This chapter is short with no Sherlock, I know, but I wanted to get it out there. I should probably clarify that in this universe John was never in the military. Guns are a hobby of his picked up from family members in the army. We'll be back to Baskerville next time.


End file.
